


221 Domestics

by CommunionNimrod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, I assume I mentioned fluff right?, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Writing Exercise, a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/pseuds/CommunionNimrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little snippets into the domestic life of John and Sherlock.  A chapter a day for a full month, each one is 221 words exactly.  Thought I'd try my hand at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kisses

People always said that a kiss will change everything.  Sometimes that’s true.  John couldn’t really say it was in his case, but that was okay.  Sure, it changed a few rather essential things, but apart from that, his life with Sherlock was very much the same.

The man still drove him mental.  He still got bored easily and tried to set John’s jumpers on fire.  He still rarely slept and insisted on playing his violin at all hours.  He was still this maddening whirlwind in John’s life, sweeping him up and whisking him away to God knows what.

Now, however, there was only one room occupied within their Baker Street flat.  Now John had a better look into the rest of Sherlock’s quirks; the ones he had been in the dark about before.  Now, over breakfast and tea there were also soft kisses and fleeting touches.  Now, in their post-case adrenaline highs, they had some of the most brilliant sex John had ever imagined possible.

Sherlock also smiled more, now.  He was surprisingly affectionate, wrapping himself around John every possible moment.  It was almost like he constantly needed to reassure himself this was happening.  And that was okay.  Because in all honesty, John could always use the reassurance himself.

Kisses could change things, and they had a bit.  For the better.

 


	2. Announcing

Sherlock paced back and forth, listening to the slow tapping of John’s fingers on the keys of his laptop.  They’d solved a case earlier that morning and no doubt his partner was going into all the details that didn’t matter.  Sniffing, he spun on his heel and walked behind John’s chair, leaning close over his shoulder so he could read.  The older man didn’t flinch, quite used to it by now.

 

“Can I help you?” he finally asked, voice amused.  Sherlock glanced at him before looking back at the laptop, eyes slanting.

 

“You haven’t talked about us,” he pointed out.  John chuckled.

 

“I always talk about us, Sherlock, that’s the point of the blog.”

 

“No, I mean **us** ,” Sherlock said pointedly.  John stopped typing.

 

“Just…haven’t figured out the best way to announce it.”

 

“What’s there to announce?” Sherlock asked, turning and pressing his face into John’s neck.  He breathed in his scent – soap, spice, and gunpowder – feeling how John shivered at the touch. “Sherlock and I are shagging quite a lot and we’re thrilled about it.”

 

“I can’t just say we’re shagging,” John said lightly, but his voice had changed a bit.  Rougher.

 

“Sure you can,” Sherlock countered, kissing his pulse.

 

“Sherlock…” John groaned.  Sherlock kissed again slowly.

 

“Leave it for now,” he requested. “ _John_...”

 

“Yeah alright,” John agreed eagerly.


	3. Work

Sherlock grunted, tightening his grip on John’s torso as he tried to get out of bed.  The older man huffed in annoyance, but was unable to keep the amused smile off his face.

 

“Sherlock, I have to go to work,” he said gently, glancing over his shoulder.  Admittedly, it was tough getting out of bed for a day at the surgery when there was such an irresistibly sexy, naked man wanting him to stay, but… he had to go to work.

 

“Work is dull,” Sherlock grunted, eyes still closed and hair an absolute mess.  He was beautiful.

 

“Dull?” John asked in amusement, raising his eyebrows. “Thought you lived for it.”

 

“The work, yes,” Sherlock countered, finally opening his eyes so he could glare in offense. “It’s your work that’s dull.  Your skills are put to a lot better use here.  With me.”

 

“My skills, huh?” John smirked, giving up and rolling over slowly.  Sherlock made a pleased noise in the back of his throat as John pressed close, hooking a leg over his hips.

 

“Mmmm, yes,” Sherlock nodded, pupils dilating slightly.

 

John leaned in, breath ghosting across Sherlock’s cheek.  The man turned kiss him, clearly aroused, but John dodged it reluctantly.

 

“Work now,” he said, patting Sherlock on the arse and kissing him quickly before climbing out of bed to shower.

 


	4. Sleeping

John would always fall asleep before Sherlock.  Honestly, he was convinced that the younger man didn’t even come to bed some nights.  He knew Sherlock rarely slept, but most of the time he would at least come join John in bed at night.  It was sweet of him.

 

There were the rare moments, however, when John would wake in the middle of the night to a sleeping Sherlock.  A sleeping Sherlock was amazing and beautiful and surprisingly hilarious.  It wasn’t something he had fully considered before they started sleeping together, but in hindsight it made all the sense in the world.  Sherlock was all limbs when he slept.  He was also quite the cuddler.

 

He was always extremely affectionate with John, but it was at a whole other level when he was sleeping.  John would wake up with Sherlock pressed up against him, one leg thrown over his hip and the other hooked in with John’s.  Arms would be wrapped around his torso or his head, and sometimes under his shirt.

 

That first week took some getting used to.  But it got to the point where John couldn’t sleep comfortably any other way.  It was only when Sherlock was wrapped around him or lying on top of him that he could sleep peacefully.  Like Sherlock himself, it was bizarre and brilliant.


	5. Mycroft

The screech of a violin following by a sarcastic snort should have been all the clues John needed as he walked up the stairs to his flat that Sherlock’s brother was visiting.  Bracing himself, he stepped through the door, greeted with the sight of Sherlock glaring at Mycroft, who was sitting in John’s chair.

 

“If you are done butting in,” Sherlock snapped. “I am very busy.”

 

“I doubt that,” Mycroft hummed, eyes shifting to John as he walked closer. “I just wanted to offer my congratulations.”

 

“Hardly,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  John’s mouth twitched in slight amusement. “You may go now.  Unless you would like me to return the courtesy.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

 

“How is Lestrade doing, dear brother?”

 

John grinned, crossing his arms, as he watched Mycroft Holmes stand and huff, before tilting his head towards John in a silent greeting.

 

“Well,” he prompted with a smile that didn’t reach his piercing eyes. “Best of luck I suppose.”

 

“A few years too late for that, wouldn’t you say?” John smirked.  Mycroft just hummed, picking up his umbrella and walking out.

 

John turned to Sherlock, who was grinning as he set his violin down and stood.

 

“I do adore the way you handle my brother,” Sherlock muttered, walking over in long strides and cupping John’s face, before kissing him sweetly.


	6. Lucky Cat

John was typing up the details of their most recent case – having gone with the title The Blind Banker – when movement drew his attention.  Following the movement was a loud thump on the table next to him, causing him to jump and stare up at his partner with wide eyes.

“The hell Sherlock?” he exclaimed.

“Here,” Sherlock prompted, pushing a lucky cat figurine closer to him.  John stared at it as Sherlock walked past and fell into his chair across from him.  After a moment, John reached over and picked it up, turning it over in his hands.

“Why…?” he started to ask, before remembering their trip to the shoppe and the woman’s remark.

_Your wife, she will like!_

John blinked, looked at Sherlock, and then glared half-heartedly.

“I am not your wife, you sod,” he said, setting the cat down.  Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in an arrogant smirk.

“Aren’t you?” the younger man teased.  Snorting, John set his laptop aside and pushed out of his chair, moving to lean over Sherlock with his hands on the leather arms of where he was sitting.

“Your partner, yes,” he muttered, leaning in close. “Not your wife.”

“You do like it though,” Sherlock deduced, tilting his chin up.

“Yeah, maybe a bit,” John nodded, smiling, before closing the distance and kissing him slowly.


	7. Gunshot

“You absolute sodding idiot,” John snapped angrily, storming into the flat.  Sherlock trudged along behind him slowly, gripping his arm. “Sit the hell down.”

 

Sherlock sighed, moving into the kitchen and sitting down in one of the chairs.  He carefully removed his Belstaff, which now had a hole in it (annoying), and waited.  Moments later John emerged with a medical bag in one hand.

 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t let the paramedics treat you there,” John muttered, jerking open the bag and slamming things on the table.  Sherlock sighed.

 

“I would prefer you treat me,” he said for the sixth time. “It’s not that bad.”

 

“Not that- Sherlock, you got SHOT.”

 

“Grazed, John,” Sherlock corrected.  He glanced at his ruined shirt, ripped and bloodied, as John unbuttoned and removed it expertly.

 

“Yes, and if you hadn’t moved in the last moment, the bullet could have hit your jugular,” John countered.  The anger was gone now.  Sherlock blinked, staring at his partner.  John was scared.

 

“John…”

 

“Sherlock, I can’t lose you.”

 

Sherlock froze.  He blinked, flinching as John went about cleaning the bleeding wound.  He watched, his chest suddenly aching.

 

“You won’t,” he whispered, barely audible.  John heard anyway.

 

“Better not, you bastard,” John scolded, eyes glistening.  Sherlock’s mouth twitched.  Instead of responding, he pulled John in for a slow kiss.


	8. Milk

They were out of milk again.

 

John sighed, staring in the fridge and letting his shoulders slump a bit.  He had just bought milk earlier in the week.  They both used it in their tea, but with as much tea as he and Sherlock commonly drank, there was no reason for them to be completely out.  Rolling his eyes at the container of fingers sitting right in front of him on the middle shelf, John shut the fridge and glanced over his shoulder.

 

“We’re out of milk again,” he called out, heading towards the sitting room.  Silence.  John pressed his lips together and glanced at where Sherlock was stretched out along the sofa, eyes closed.  He knew the detective wasn’t asleep.  Shaking his head, he made his way over and sat on the edge of the table.

 

“We’re out of milk,” he repeated stubbornly.

 

“I am aware,” Sherlock hummed.

 

“What do you keep doing with it all?” John asked.

 

“Experiments.”

 

John groaned.  Of course it was experiments.  As he moved to stand, Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he sat up quickly.  John jumped, and glared.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’ll go get milk,” Sherlock huffed.  In a flurry of motion he was up and out the door.  John blinked, mouth twitching in a smile.

 

“Love you too, you git.”


	9. Movie Night

“Okay, so how about… Lord of the Rings?” John asked, crouched down in front of their sadly small movie collection.

 

“It’s about a piece of jewelry, John,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he lounged on the sofa.

 

“Okay, then.  Inception?” he tried again.

 

“Tries too hard to impress.”

 

“Star Wars?”

 

“Dull.”

 

“Star Trek?”

 

“Also dull.”

 

“For the love of-“ John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Sherlock was awful to please when it came to movies, but John didn’t really want to go out.  They didn’t have a case and they’d already had sex twice that afternoon.  Licking his lips, he tilted his head, hoping to find something Sherlock had minimal complaints about. “The Lady Vanishes.”

 

“No Hitchcock, Mycroft loves Hitchcock,” Sherlock groaned.

 

“Full Metal Jacket?”

 

“You already said no sex again, so a war movie is a poor decision.”

 

John snorted, unable to help but be amused by the blunt comment.  He smirked, skin tingling at the look Sherlock gave him in return, and stood.

 

“I give up,” he finally admitted, wandering over and falling on the sofa.

 

“Very well,” Sherlock nodded, leaning forward and picking up a box. “Cluedo.”

 

John hesitated, eyeing his boyfriend carefully, before letting his shoulders slump.

 

“Fine,” he sighed. “But the victim will not have done it.”

 

“Oh I wouldn’t be so sure.”


	10. Spring Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having to update on my phone today and tomorrow so hopefully the formatting isn't screwed up. ;)
> 
> This drabble idea suggested by Boxxer (shezzatective on Tumblr) :D

Oh thank you, John dear,” Mrs. Hudson beamed gratefully as she handed him a bag of trash and some cleaning supplies. John nodded and smiled.

“Of course,” he nodded, adjusting his grip. “I’ll just take this upstairs and then take everything out to the bins in a moment. And if I’m lucky, get Sherlock to actually lift a finger.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson giggled. “My husband was the same way.”

John opened his mouth, but just smiled, before turning to go upstairs. He was helping their landlady with some spring cleaning, and Sherlock had been conveniently in his bloody Mind Palace all day. If he was still sat in that chair when John walked through, he would throttle him.

Naturally, what he walked in on was almost worse. John sighed loudly as he stared at his partner, crouched down and flinging papers everywhere.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He shouldn’t be surprised, yet… he was. Sherlock paused and glanced up.

“Spring cleaning,” he said, the ‘obviously’ hanging silently in the air. John glared.

“This is the exact opposite of cleaning, actually.”

“No, all of this stuff can be thrown out. It’s old, no longer useful.”

“Then get a bloody trash bag!”

Sherlock just looked at him pointedly, before going back to tossing papers. Groaning, John went to grab a bag.


	11. Holding Hands

Sherlock loved touching John. Perhaps it was because he finally could, without reservation, whenever he wanted to. He no longer had to force down the urge to be close to him, to feel his warmth. Now that the freedom was there, Sherlock couldn’t get enough.

They walked closer, so that their arms would brush up against each other. They sat closer, the comforting warmth of each other’s thighs present. Brief touches to a forearm, shoulder, or side became so normal that neither of them thought about it anymore.

Sherlock’s favorite thing was when they held hands, though. He had examined it over and over and hadn’t been able to figure out why. But there was something about when they sat at the kitchen table during breakfast and Sherlock would reach out, spreading his fingers so that John could thread his own in between them. 

They would walk through the flat like this as well, gently tugging each other to wherever they were going. Even when they were brushing their teeth in the morning, or possibly making some fresh tea, their fingers would be locked together. At times, there would be no more contact than their pinkies curled together tightly, and Sherlock almost liked that even more.

He lived for John’s touch. It focused him, grounded him. It made him feel whole.


	12. Jealousy

John’s jaw clenched as he stared at Sherlock; who was not looking at him.  John might very well be nonexistent.  He took a deep breath, jealously flooding through him.  It had been bad enough before when they weren’t dating, but now that they were partners, lovers, Sherlock’s fascination with Irene Adler made John mental.

 

“Sod this, I’m going to bed,” he snapped, pushing out of his chair and finally earning a look from Sherlock. “I assume you’re not coming.”

 

“You’re angry,” Sherlock said, curiosity or confusion in his eyes.  John didn’t know which and didn’t honestly care.

 

“Of course I’m bloody angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I’m not enough for you just say so.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, eyes slanting.  John gave him a pointed look. “Adler?  Oh John, honestly-“

 

“Do.  Not.  Treat me like an idiot on this Sherlock,” John snapped, pointing at him. “I might as well not be here with as fascinated by her as you are.  Again.”

 

“John,” Sherlock said softly, standing. “I only need you.”

 

John snorted, watching the taller man get closer until they were standing beside one another.

 

“You are my conductor of light,” Sherlock continued, reaching out and squeezing John’s biceps.  John sighed.  Hearing those words helped.

 

“Sorry,” he sighed.  Sherlock smiled, leaning in to kiss him gently.


	13. Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the only one not written by me. My friend i-am-greg-lestrade (username on AO3 and Tumblr) wanted to the the 221 word challenge a quick shot, and she sent it my way to use! :)

Before they got together, John would have never imagined himself being the one to make tea for Sherlock. It was always the other way around, Sherlock making them tea and John not even having to ask.

Now that they are actually together, it’s not an uncommon occurrence that John would get up first and make Sherlock’s tea and his breakfast (because God knows that man would never eat if left up to him to decide).

Soon, it had become to be a morning routine for the two. John, up at 6 or so, would shower, dress for the day, and then walk to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Then, by the time it’s boiled, Sherlock would sleepily walk out, usually in his pyjamas and dressing gown, but, sometimes, in just his pants. John would just smile at the younger man, fill his cup with the fresh tea, and get on making breakfast.

But, on days where John sleeps in and Sherlock wakes up before him, Sherlock would wait. He’d watch the rise and fall of John’s chest, how serene his face is, the way he still sleeps lightly, ready to wake up at any moment. Those were the mornings where Sherlock could truly appreciate what he had. What he had gotten after so many years of waiting.

  
His John.


	14. Scars

Things had been a blur since Sherlock’s return.  The man had always been the whirlwind in John’s life, and that still held true even though he’d been “dead” for two years.  John had been angry.  He’d let himself be angry for a few days before finally the walls crumbled, and within the confines of their once-shared flat, a heated argument turned into confessions, which turned into kisses and then...

 

Now, the next morning, John was waking up in Sherlock’s bed.  He glanced beside him where Sherlock was, still fast asleep, and he felt a peace that he had lost.  Sighing through his nose, he sat up slowly, watching the sleeping man as he turned and the sheet slid off his naked body slightly.

 

John’s eyes widened at the sight.  They were so frantic and desperate last night that he hadn’t taken the time to examine Sherlock properly.  But now… Now the barely healed red marks across Sherlock’s back were glaring up at him. John bit his lip.

 

The scars looked awful.  Sherlock had kept them hidden.  Slowly, John reached out and touched the warm, raised skin, brow furrowing.  Never again.  Sherlock would never have to hide again, and no one would ever hurt him like this.  John pledged that silently as he leaned in and kissed his lover’s shoulder blade tenderly.


	15. Rainy Day

“Staring at the envelope harder won’t give you the answer,” John laughed, watching as Sherlock leaned closer to the game board between them.

 

“It’s Mrs. Peacock, she has the motive, it’s obvious,” the detective said for the tenth time, ignoring him.  John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“And I told you before, that’s not possible,” he said, wondering how often they would be revisiting this conversation.

 

“No one else could have!” Sherlock snapped.

 

“She’s the _victim_ , Sherlock!  Lord, it’s randomized, deduction isn’t the way to go here.”

 

Frustrated, Sherlock leapt out of his chair and paced around the room.  John sighed, glancing out the window where the rain was still coming down in buckets.  They were both bored and stir-crazy.  John had thought a board game would help, but it was having the exact opposite effect.

 

“Let’s play something else,” John suggested.

 

“Or we could just go have sex,” Sherlock said again, tilting his head. “Much more exciting.”

 

John chuckled, grinning as he stood and wandered over to their small selection next to the bookshelf.  He picked up Operation and turned.

 

“How about this?” he suggested.

 

“Sex would be more exciting.”

 

“Patience, love,” John placated, going to sit back down.  Sherlock huffed, falling back into his chair.

 

“Fine, but I will win this as well.”

 

“ _You_ didn’t win Cluedo.”


	16. Dancing

Sherlock was in a brooding mood; John could tell.  It was clear in the hard set of his face and rigid lines of his shoulders that, even though they had just solved what seemed to be a fascinating case, something was bothering the detective.  John watched as his partner shed his coat, dumped it on the floor, and collapsed onto the sofa.

 

John sighed, leaning over to pick the Belstaff up and hang it properly.  He gazed over at the younger man, thinking.  There had been... a reserved excitement to Sherlock in this case.  It had surprised John, but he hesitated to bring it up during it all.  Now that it was over, John thought about the two of them standing at the crime scene – a dance studio – and it dawned on him.

 

With a soft smile, he walked over and extended his hand.  Sherlock eyed it silently.

 

“Dance with me,” he requested quietly.  Sherlock’s eyes slanted.

 

“Why?”

 

“Come on Sherlock,” John pushed affectionately, grinning.

 

Sherlock sighed, but pushed off the couch.  Together, they walked to the center of the sitting room, shifting their table aside, and threaded their fingers together as they began to dance.  Sherlock hid his passion for dancing from everyone else, but it was clearly what he’d needed, his mood lifting slowly as they swayed together gently.


	17. Mummy

As Sherlock entered the flat, the smell of perfume filled him with a familiar annoyance and dread.  No.  His eyes darted around, observing every inch and detail, when he heard two sets of footsteps coming from his and John’s.  Groaning softly, he hurried up the steps and burst into their flat, causing two pairs of startled eyes to lay on him.

 

“John,” he started, who blinked at him.  Sherlock watched as his mother set her tea down and stood quickly, a warm smile on her face.

 

“Oh Sherlock, there you are dear,” she beamed, walking over to try and tug him into a hug.  Sherlock stiffened, craning away from her as best he could, which earned a soft snort from his partner.

 

“Why are you here?” he asked.

 

“Getting to know your John of course,” Mummy tutted, releasing him. “I wish you’d gotten home sooner so I could have spent time with you both, but as I was just telling John, I must be off.”

 

She managed to get a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, even though he tried avoiding it, and after hugging John, she was off.

 

“You were alone with my mother,” Sherlock deadpanned, eyes wide.  John just chuckled.

 

“It was lovely,” he said. “She’s wonderful, don’t be mean mean.  She’s having us over for dinner next weekend.”

 

Sherlock groaned.


	18. Fighting

John stood in the middle of his old room, staring at the bed that hadn’t been used in months.  Very few of his belongings sat on the dresser or nightstand now.  The room was dim and slightly musty.  He sighed, rubbing his face roughly and sitting down on the edge of the bed, feeling the slight give as the mattress bent under his weight.

 

He couldn’t stand to be downstairs right now.  Sherlock had been so crass and thoughtless with those people’s lives.  It wasn’t the first time, but it still bothered John to the core.  Add the snapping insults on top of it, and John’s patience ended.  He’d stormed out, shouting that he was sleeping upstairs, and now… here he was.

 

It was quiet.  Had Sherlock left the flat?  Gone to bed?  Pressing his lips together, John pulled back the duvet and turned off the light.  He just needed to relax and sleep.

 

An hour passed.  Two.  John was wide awake.  Groaning, he made his way back downstairs and into their bedroom.  Sherlock was lying on his side, back to the door.  Running a hand through his hair, John climbed in behind him.

 

“John-“

 

“I’m still mad at you,” John interrupted without force.  There was a pause.

 

“I know.”

 

Curling close, John pressed into Sherlock’s back and fell asleep effortlessly.


	19. Army

“You never talk about it,” Sherlock whispered one evening, his chest pressed up against John’s back, gaze on his bicep. He lightly traced the outline of the insignia tattooed on his arm, gazing at the slightly faded ink and the neat words.

 

“What’s there to say?” John asked evasively, not needing the younger man to clarify what he meant. “I was there, it all happened, I got injured and sent home, and here I am.”

 

“Yes, but I know you,” Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to the scar on the back of John’s shoulder. “The life we have; you had to have loved it over there.”

 

“You could always just deduce it,” John teased.

 

“Yes, but I prefer to hear these kind of things from you,” Sherlock admitted. He could deduce John’s time in the army, and he had a bit, but that didn’t matter. Sighing, John pressed back into Sherlock’s grasp, their bodies molding together comfortably. Sherlock hummed.

 

“We were a tight group,” John said after almost ten minutes of silence. “I was the youngest; the pup, they called me. Doc. I’ll admit I was a bit eager to impress, but they seemed to like that about me.”

 

Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the base of John’s neck.

 

“Penn was our sniper, a total nutjob…”


	20. Sebastian

Sherlock was in a dark mood as they returned to the flat, dumping his Belstaff on the back of his chair and walking over to pick up his violin.  He was constantly aware of the sound of John’s footsteps, hearing them draw closer, but he set his jaw and slid his bow across the strings.

 

“That guy was an arse,” John muttered, standing behind him.  Sherlock snorted.  That was an understatement. “Was he like that back in school, too?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said after a few conflicting moments. “Sebastian has never been a big fan of mine.  No one was.”

 

“You’re not a freak,” John whispered after a few moments of silence.  Sherlock had begun messing with his violin again and was lucky to have heard the statement.  He froze, his mind going blank.

 

“John,” he started, but the words died off.  There was a hand on his shoulder.  He turned.

 

“You’re not,” John said firmly, and it was clear he believed it.  Sherlock stared, almost flinching in surprise as John reached up and cupped his cheek.  It was an intimate gesture, and he wasn’t used to it.

 

“John,” he repeated, voice strained.

 

“You’re amazing,” John whispered, pressing up on his toes.  Sherlock made a soft noise as their lips brushed together.  He gripped John’s jumper, pulling him closer.  He needed this.


	21. Morse Code

Love.

 

It was a sentiment that Sherlock was very unfamiliar with.  He thought he had known the feeling before, when he was younger and foolish, but love isn’t what he’d felt for Victor.  Not really.

 

He’d pushed down all possibilities of the feeling; deleted it.  Yet, when John Watson came into his life, it all resurfaced.  He spent plenty of time trying to fight it, before realizing it was a fight he wouldn’t win.  He loved John.  John: a flatmate who should be average and boring, yet he was anything but.

 

When they had kissed, Sherlock’s world changed.  When they shared the same bed, he finally knew happiness.  Their relationship shifted to something more, but their lives didn’t change otherwise.

 

Sherlock was in love with John, yet he had not said so.  Neither of them had spoken the word that somehow felt very heavy on his tongue.  He could, however, express it in other ways.  Tapping the phrase out on a hard surface when they were sat together worked well.  It satisfied his need to say it without having to say it.

 

The day that John was across from him, smirking, and tapping out ‘ _I love you too, you git_ ’, Sherlock felt bliss.  Of course John would pick up on the morse code.  Sherlock had been incredibly foolish to think otherwise.


	22. Bees

“How do you feel about bees?” Sherlock asked one day out of the blue.  He had been stretched out on the sofa for a few hours, hands steepled under his chin, thinking.  John had taken to remaining in his chair for most of it, drinking some tea and reading the morning’s newspaper.

 

“Hmm?” John hummed, blinking as he glanced up from the newspaper.

 

“Bees, John, do keep up,” Sherlock said, turning to look at him.

 

“They’re… alright I suppose,” John said after a moment of thought. “Not really had a big opinion of them, one way or the other.  Why?”

 

“When I finally grow tired of staying here at Baker Street as we are, I had plans to move to the country,” Sherlock explained, turning his head and shifting back to his previous position.  John’s mouth twitched in a slight smile. “I would raise bees.  Study them.  Keep them.  It would be… highly inconvenient were you to be opposed or allergic.”

 

“Highly inconvenient, huh?” John’s smile widened.  Sherlock was pretty cemented in his life and he couldn’t imagine a time where they weren’t together anymore.  They’d never really discussed the future, though.  It was in his wayward, Sherlockian way, but that’s exactly what was happening now.  Warmth bloomed in John’s chest.

 

“Bees aren’t a problem,” he answered affectionately.  Sherlock hummed softly.


	23. Uniform

Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror, fixing his tie expertly with a small frown on his face.  He hated wearing tuxedos.  He also hated ceremonies that required tuxedos.  However, this one was important to John, so while he made his distaste known, he went along with it anyway.

 

One of John’s “army buddies” was receiving some kind of medal.  Sherlock didn’t bother remembering the significance of it.  That hardly mattered.  The only thing that did was seeing John all dressed up.  Sherlock’s mouth had gone dry when his partner pulled the dress uniform out of the closet a little earlier.  He would hardly deny fantasizing about how John looked, though this would be the first time it would be a reality.

 

He heard footsteps behind him and to the right, from the direction of the bathroom.  He swallowed.  His heart was racing.

 

“Ready?” came John’s voice.  Taking a slow breath, Sherlock turned.  His eyes scanned his partner’s body; taking in the straight lines of dark blue and the white belt, watching John gently tug his gloves on.  It was sexier than he could have imagined.  A noise escaped him, and John’s eyebrows lifted.

 

“I’d rather stay home,” Sherlock rumbled roughly, heat thrumming in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” John smirked playfully, licking his lips.


	24. Illness

Sherlock hovered next to the bed, shifting his weight back and forth as he gazed down at John.  He did not do this.  John was the doctor, the caretaker, not him.  However, John was the one with the fever and the awful cough that sounded like a caged animal was trapped in his chest.  It was unsettling how pale his skin was.  Sherlock grimaced.

 

“What do you need?” he asked for the tenth time that morning at least.  John’s mouth twitched up in a small smile.

 

“Tea would be nice,” he rasped, before breaking off into another round of coughs.  Sherlock made a distressed noise, kneeling down and squinting, trying to deduce the best way to cure the ailment.

 

“John…” he muttered, reaching over to brush sweat-soaked hair away from his partner’s forehead. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

 

He was beyond uncomfortable admitting that.  He was so out of his area.  This was John’s area.  He blinked as John reached out and took his hand, squeezing gently.

 

“There’s no… fixing,” John commented slowly. “Just nursing.  So let’s start with tea.  Then it’ll be almost time for more medicine, okay?”

 

“Okay…” Sherlock sighed, standing.  He turned on his heel, before John’s gravelly voice stopped him at the door.

 

“Just stay with me, okay Sherlock?”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said with a smile.


	25. Presence

_“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.  Would that bother you?”_

Those had been among the first words Sherlock had ever spoken to John.  They all held true, from that point and for long after they had moved in together.  Sherlock was never one for socializing because other people were boring and tedious and he had much better things to do.  It was easy enough to slip into his Mind Palace and ignore everything around him for quite a while.  He was told he often carried on conversations long after people had left.

 

It was all still true, to some degree.  However, now that he and John were romantically involved, Sherlock found himself hyper-aware of the older man’s presence at any given time.  No matter how deep into his Mind Palace he was, Sherlock was in tune with the goings on of the flat all the time.  It was a bit maddening, granted, and he would hardly be able to admit it, but.  Suddenly, being alone was awful.

 

Why be alone when he could be with John?  His flatmate, his doctor, his conductor of light.  John called him a romantic, but he hardly was.  He just didn’t see the point in being without him.  Not when it was so much better _with_ him.


	26. Dog Tags

“I’ve got something for you,” John announced softly, as he and Sherlock were curled up in bed for the night.

 

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, making no attempt to move off him.

 

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Which means you need to move.”

 

“Mmm, not important right now then,” Sherlock announced, nuzzling closer.  John laughed.

 

“Seriously, it’ll just take a second.”

 

He nudged at the younger man’s body playfully, before he was finally able to slip out from underneath him.  John only smiled at the grumpy glare he received, tugged on his robe, and wandered out of the room.  Nerves took over as he made his way down the hall and up to his old room.  This was something he’d thought about for a while and hadn’t drawn up the courage to do.  Maybe it was too sentimental and Sherlock would hate it.  But still… He wanted to.

 

Squaring his shoulders, he retrieved the item from his desk and headed back downstairs, slipping out of the robe as he re-entered their bedroom.  It wasn’t until he sat back down on the bed and turned to face Sherlock that he swallowed, holding out his dog tags.  Sherlock blinked.

 

“Your… tags?” he asked, reaching over slowly and taking them.  John nodded, watching as Sherlock’s eyes scanned over them.

 

“It’s dumb, but-“

 

“No, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s wonderful.”


	27. Sofa

The sofa got a lot more use than it used to.  While John and Sherlock still used their chairs quite regularly, especially when there was a client in the flat, when they were having a relaxing day in or just spending a bit of time together, they gravitated to the sofa.

 

On a particularly stressful day, John had taken to going straight to the sofa when he got home.  Bypassing the kitchen completely, he would slip off his jacket and toe off his shoes before collapsing with a heavy sigh and rubbing his face roughly.  One leg stretched out along the cushions, the other hanging off with his foot on the floor, he would sling an arm over his eyes and try to relax.

 

His favorite thing about moments like these was when Sherlock was already in the flat and not completely immersed in some kind of experiment.  If that were the case, within five minutes or so of this happening, John could hear soft footfalls coming closer.  Without speaking, Sherlock would press a knee on the empty space between his legs and sprawl out on John’s body, wrapping around him securely like the best blanket in the world.

 

As Sherlock would nuzzle into John’s neck or kiss his collarbone, the older man found he would always smile and relax instantly.


	28. Birthday

John woke with a grunt as his side was nudged repeatedly.  He briefly considered swatting at whoever was bothering him and rolling back into his pillow, but an amazing smell made him decide otherwise.  Yawning, he rolled over and blinked his eyes open, gazing at his partner… holding a tray.

 

“Sherlock?” he questioned, voice still rough with sleep.  He pushed himself up, eyes widening when he realized there was food on the tray.

 

“Breakfast,” Sherlock announced, only waiting long enough for John to sit up completely before setting it on his lap.  John continued to stare.

 

“Did you… make this?” he asked, pointing at the bacon and sausage and eggs and what looked like French toast on his plate.  Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

 

“Simple science, John,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively.

 

“What’s all this about?” John asked after he’d taken a moment to try the food.  It was bloody amazing.

 

“It’s your birthday,” Sherlock said. “And… well, Lestrade said breakfast in bed was always nice.  Was he correct?”

 

John chuckled, giving the taller man a gentle smile as Sherlock watched him hesitantly.  He nodded, popping some eggs in his mouth and humming as he chewed.

 

“It is nice,” he said. “But you didn’t have to, you know.”

 

Sherlock shrugged again.

 

“I wanted to.”

 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”


	29. Body Parts

John jogged up the steps to their flat, shopping bags in hand.  He was feeling nervous; Harry was finally visiting today.  Apparently the curiosity of his boyfriend had become too much for her to handle (her words).  A whole manner of things could go horribly wrong, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it all.

 

He glanced over to where Sherlock was sat at the table in the kitchen, leaning over his microscope, exactly where John had left him an hour before.  He smiled before setting the bags down, pulling out a few things, and opening the fridge.

 

He sighed at the sight, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Sherlock, why is there a spleen in the fridge?” he forced himself to ask.

 

“Molly dropped it by,” Sherlock replied in a mutter.  John pressed his lips together.

 

“Did she have to bring it by today?” he almost snapped, pushing the container aside.

 

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said. “It was fresh and I hardly need an old spleen for my experiments.”

 

“Harry is coming by,” John reminded him, crossing his arms. “I don’t want my sister seeing body parts in our fridge.”

 

Sherlock finally looked at him, blinking, and then smirked.

 

“Perhaps it will get her to leave.”

 

“You said you’d behave,” John pointed out, but he was smiling too.


	30. Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The end, and I got kinda sappy haha. :p
> 
> Huge thanks to SpaceQueer, Antheas_Blackberry, SpinnerOfSpiels, Doctor_Tinycat, SincerelyChaos, LeoTheLion, lion_62, opal_death, drpepperdiva91, klomami, Lunalice, and thegreenqueen for all your wonderful comments throughout this month. Each one has put a smile on my face.
> 
> Also more huge thanks to everyone else who read and/or left kudos. You are all wonderful. <333

This was his life.  The whirlwind life of Sherlock Holmes and his eternal partner, John Watson.

 

It was a good life.

 

Sure, it was complicated and it was nothing like Sherlock had ever expected his life would turn out like.  Of course he had expected his line of work – it was the only appropriate work he could ever do.  He expected the violence.  He expected the boredom.

 

He had not accounted for John.  Not until that day at Bart’s where he’d been brought into his life.

 

Wonderful, ordinary, perfect John.  Suddenly things that had never mattered to Sherlock before mattered a great deal.  Sherlock had never expected to fall in love, yet here he was.

 

He had hated sleeping before (and during cases he still did), but not now.  Now, when he could lie here just like this, nude and tangled in silk sheets, with John’s warm body next to him (on him).  The smooth warmth of the older man’s skin was pressed to his side.  The cool metal of his dog tags resting on Sherlock’s chest.

 

Before, Sherlock had been fine with being alone.  He had been fine with the drugs.  That part of his life seemed like a faraway dream now.  He had changed, and he had resisted that change at first, but not anymore.  Now, he embraced it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fluff and First Kisses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884527) by [affluent_absolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution)




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